


drown my will to fly

by ohmyheichou



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Gen, Vomiting, almost forgot tw, but no really graphic descriptions, i mean let's be real, poor babies have got to be messed up, shifters dealing badly with their lives, that's that i guess, they all deserve hugs, this doesn't have hugs though so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyheichou/pseuds/ohmyheichou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren, Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt are all a little self-destructive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drown my will to fly

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'm working on my many unfinished stories....don't kill me.
> 
> Fun fact: each section is 219 words. Is there a reason for that? Nope.

She draws the razor down her arm and watches the line of red it leaves behind with a vague feeling of satisfaction. The red steams, and she watches it, and feels a slight pang of disappointment. She wants to make a mark on _something_ , and since she can’t seem to mark anything else, she wanted to mark herself at least. But it never worked. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, because she had to admit that she wasn’t even trying very hard. 

But still.

She was a little disappointed.

But only a little.

She doesn’t feel much of anything, these days. Anger, sometimes. She doesn’t like being challenged, even if she recognizes that it is foolish of her to resent it. It’s true, after all. She isn’t committed to their mission anymore. She isn’t committed to herself anymore.

She wants to resist it, but it’s too hard. She has no energy for anything anymore. She likes to fight, to spar, but it isn’t the same as fighting against her fate. So she slips up. A lot. She hopes that someone will notice, that someone will stop her. She almost doesn’t mind, wants to pretend that it isn’t her fault, that they were just simple accidents, not deliberately calculated incidents. In the end it probably won’t matter.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

He watches them and feels an inexplicable desire to run away. Most days all he wants is to herd them closer and keep them safe. He likes the Walls. Even feels a weird sort of attachment to them. They keep everyone safe.

He watches them, and he knows that there is something he needs to remember. He has no idea what it is he has forgotten, but he knows that it is important. 

They talk to him, chattering away about silly things as though to prove that they are but children yet. They talk to him, and he banters right back. It’s so easy for him to fall into this routine, as though it is what he has been doing for years and years and years.

That’s somewhat true, he supposes. It hasn’t been quite that long, but it’s been a couple of years. They’re his. They’re his family, and he is going to protect them.

He feels quite strongly about that, but he still has that nagging feeling in the back of his head, and it reminds him that there is something he needs to remember. So he excuses himself and heads back to his room.

Closing his eyes, he sits back to try and remember. All it takes is one word, and the stabbing guilt comes back.

* * *

He punches the wall once, and his skin tears. He punches the wall twice, and he leaves behind blood. He punches the wall three times, and he breaks his hand.

He shifts, and sets his broken fingers. The resounding crack is loud in the silence. 

Rinse and repeat.

He doesn’t know why he’s so angry. He usually has good reason to be, but now he’s always angry and he doesn’t know why.

He can’t _do_ anything, and he hates what he is. He hates everything. The world is filled with shit and there is nothing that he can do about it. There’s nothing anyone else can do about it. There’s no point to trying, and in his head he knows that. 

He also knows there’s no point to not trying. So he always, always gives it his best shot, but it seems as though no one appreciates the fact that he’s trying. And really, why would they, when he was constantly fucking things up?

He punches the wall again, more viciously this time, and manages to dislocate his wrist on top of breaking a couple of fingers. He wants to break everything.

He pauses, sets his wrist and his fingers, resumes his assault on the wall. The wall. The Walls. In this moment, they’re all the same to him.

* * *

He sobs quietly. He is alone, in a dark place where no one else ever goes, but he is still quiet. It’s habit now, this need to stifle his whimpers and silence his fears. Nothing good ever comes of them. He knows that.

He chokes a little, but continues sobbing. People will miss him at dinner, but he doesn’t care about that. Realistically, they might not even notice his absence. He’s always quiet, whether he’s crying or not. 

There is a world of things that he is upset about, a world of things he would like to forget, and a world of things he wants to go back to. He cries for all of those things, but ultimately nothing is going to change.

He closes his eyes and tries to slow down his breathing. He has to get back soon, or people _will_ notice, and he doesn’t want that.

But it doesn’t work, and soon he’s heaving into a toilet bowl, choking around saliva and acid as he struggles to breathe.

He empties his regrets and his fears and his resentment and everything he doesn’t want to feel into that sparkling clean white bowl, and that’s that.

He knows deep in his bones that he isn’t okay, isn’t sane, but he gets up anyway. It’s all he can do.


End file.
